


I ran (so far away)

by alenie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Fluff, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 15:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alenie/pseuds/alenie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is running.</p><p>His heart is pounding, but he can hear footsteps behind him, closing in. He’s so tired, but he can’t stop. Not yet. Just a little farther now and it’ll all be over.</p><p>Sweat trickles down from his hairline and drips into his eyes. It stings and he dashes it away impatiently. He can hear yelling coming from somewhere ahead and he speeds up, heading straight for the clamor of voices. <i>Almost there, almost there,</i> he chants to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I ran (so far away)

Stiles is running.

His heart is pounding, but he can hear footsteps behind him, closing in. He’s so tired, but he can’t stop. Not yet. Just a little farther now and it’ll all be over.

Sweat trickles down from his hairline and drips into his eyes. It stings and he dashes it away impatiently. He can hear yelling coming from somewhere ahead and he speeds up, heading straight for the clamor of voices. _Almost there, almost there,_ he chants to himself.

He’s nearly at the clearing now. The gap between the trees widens and he puts on a final burst of speed.

He crosses over the finish line, lungs burning, and falls on his hands and knees, dry heaving into the grass. _Shit._ He caught a glimpse of the clock just before he finished and he hasn’t run this badly since sophomore year. Coach is going to kill him.

He waves away an advancing race official and stands up, a little wobbly, breathing hard. His mouth tastes awful and he knows there’s water back at the tent, but he’s really not ready to face his teammates just yet and have them ask him how he did, what his time was.

Luckily, Derek’s waiting for him at the edge of the crowd, and he’s got Stiles’ water bottle. They’re not big on PDA, especially not at high school sporting events, but their hands brush when Derek passes over the bottle, and it’s enough to give Stiles a faint rush of contentment. Their relationship is new enough that every touch still feels like a gift.

“You okay?” Derek asks.

Stiles takes a huge gulp of water and swishes it around his mouth before spitting it out. Ah, so much better. He downs another quarter of the bottle before answering.

He shrugs. 

“I’m fine. Just a crappy race.”

“I saw you at the finish, it looked like you were hurting.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and ducks his head, blinking fiercely against the sudden threat of tears. He’s been training so hard this season, hoping to make it to States, but he’s never gonna be good enough at this rate. Derek steps closer and squeezes Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles wants nothing more than to let Derek wrap him up in a warm hug and hide his face in Derek’s neck--but he settles for wrapping his fingers around Derek’s forearm, just for a moment.

“How’d you do?” Stiles asks, looking for a distraction. “I caught the start, but the guys wanted to have plenty of time to warm up, so that’s all I saw.” 

Derek’s in JV. He’s an okay runner; not that fast, but consistent. And it’s only his first year on the team, after all. Coach is already trying to get him to join the track team, claiming that he may be skin and bones right now, but spend enough time in the weight room and he’ll have the perfect sprinter’s build.

“Eighteen oh-five,” Derek says, grinning.

“Sweet, no way!” Stiles says. “That’s a new PR, huh?”

“Yeah, by fifteen seconds. It’s not great or anything, but--”

“Are you kidding me, it’s _awesome_ ,” Stiles says. “We’re gonna celebrate this, okay? Possibly with ice cream. And maybe other things.”

He drops his voice down low when he gets to ‘other things’, and Derek blushes. They haven’t gone farther than kissing, but they’ve been talking about it, and Stiles would really, really like to get his hands, or possibly his mouth, on Derek’s dick.

“ _Stiles,_ ” Derek says, mock-scandalized. Then he winces at something over Stiles’ shoulder. “Coach is coming this way.”

“Crap. Meet you back at the tent?”

Derek nods.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” he advises, just before Coach makes it within shouting range and bellows “ _Stilinski!_.

*  
Stiles slumps into the bus seat with a sigh, Derek sliding in next to him. Coach wasn’t too harsh, but he didn’t have to be; Stiles already felt like crap without his help. Everyone else piles onto the bus after them, most of them heading to the back, where they can be rowdy and crude without Coach yelling at them. 

Coach gives his usual post-meet speech, something about how they’ve done well and he’s proud of them and they’re going to run 800 meter repeats on Monday. There’s a collective groan. Coach relents, tells them Monday will be an easy day and he’ll move the repeats to Tuesday. Then he’s sitting down and the bus driver pulls out of the parking lot and everyone settles down for the long drive back to school.

Derek’s busy digging around in his backpack, so Stiles slouches down into his seat and stares out the window, replaying his race in his head. God, _Greenburg_ ran better than he did today. That’s just embarrassing. 

A hand nudges into his own, interrupting his spiral of doom. He takes it gratefully and intertwines his fingers with Derek’s. Derek has big hands. Stiles’ fingers are long, skinny things; Derek’s are strong. Solid. Sometimes when they’re kissing, Derek will cup Stiles’ face with his hands, and it’s the best thing ever.

“I’m sorry you had a bad race,” Derek says quietly, his thumb stroking back and forth over Stiles’.

“I sucked,” Stiles says. He rubs at his eyes with his free hand, because he can handle a lot of things, but apparently he can’t handle Derek holding his hand and being gentle with him. Usually their relationship revolves around a lot of bad jokes and stolen makeout sessions. 

“You didn’t suck.”

Stiles scootches closer to Derek until they’re pressed together from knee to shoulder. 

“Are you sure?” he mumbles. He knows he’s being kind of pathetic, fishing for reassurance, but he _feels_ pathetic. 

“Positive,” Derek says. He keeps stroking Stiles’ hand and Stiles relaxes into it, molding himself to Derek’s side.

He wakes up an hour later, thoroughly confused, his cheek pressed into Derek’s shoulder, their hands loosely entangled. It’s dark out and it takes him a second to remember where he is. 

“Sleep well?” Derek asks. Stiles blinks at him in the dark. He sits up and yawns, stretching.

“What time is it?”

“Seven fifty.”

Stiles glances around. Most of the bus is asleep. Coach is actually snoring.

“I didn’t drool on you, did I?”

“Only a little bit,” Derek says, grinning. “You feeling better now?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles admits. He’s still upset about his race, but not to the point of tears like he was before. He pats Derek on the leg. “You make a nice pillow.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

His hand is still on Derek’s thigh and Derek picks it up and turns it over, absently rubbing his thumb over Stiles’ palm. It’s embarrassing how good it feels; Derek’s light, sweeping touches. It makes his palm tingle, and when Derek starts idly tracing patterns with his thumbnail, Stiles’ whole arm twitches uncontrollably. 

Derek pauses.

“Stiles? I can stop, if you’re ticklish.”

“No, keep going,” Stiles breathes. Something in his voice must give him away, because Derek scrutinizes his face and then scritches his fingernails against Stiles’ palm. It makes Stiles shiver and breathe in sharply enough to make a faintly audible sound.

“Feels good, huh?”

It’s full dark out now, but shadows from the streetlights flicker over Derek’s face, catching his mischievous expression.

“Yes, you dick,” Stiles says, and Derek retaliates by running his nails from the crook of Stiles’ elbow down to his hand. Oh _fuck_.

Stiles has suddenly become very, very aware that he didn’t bother changing into jeans after his race. He’s not still in his racing shorts, thank god, but the pair he’s wearing now aren’t gonna conceal much if he pops a boner. And if Derek keeps this up, Little Stiles is _definitely_ going to get interested.

“Derek, wait,” he says reluctantly. “I, um...you gotta stop, dude. Or I’m gonna embarrass myself when we get off the bus.”

He doesn’t miss the way Derek’s eyes flick to his crotch. He’s worried that Derek might laugh at him, but Derek curls his hand around Stiles’ wrist and his eyes are dark and wide.

“Holy shit,” Derek says, overloud. He hastily drops his voice back down to a whisper. “Stiles, that’s so hot. Just--just from me touching your hand?”

Stiles nods.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” Derek says, just as the bus rumbles off the highway and onto the exit ramp. They’ll be at the high school in ten minutes, tops.

“We’re on a _school bus_ , Derek.”

Derek sighs. “I know. We’re still hanging out tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Stiles says, taking a swig of water from his bottle. (His face is hot. He needs to cool it down, okay?)

“Good, I want to try out that hand thing somewhere where we won’t get interrupted.”

Stiles spits water all over himself.

**Author's Note:**

> [Derek & Stiles' theme song.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iIpfWORQWhU)
> 
> [Come stalk me on tumblr! (Or talk to me, if you'd prefer.)](http://alenie.tumblr.com)


End file.
